


Owned

by K_dAzrael



Category: Batman - Comicverse - Fandom, DCU - Comicverse, Earth 3 - Fandom
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-09
Updated: 2009-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_dAzrael/pseuds/K_dAzrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The first time it happens Owlman decides it must be a fluke... Not the sex – he always knew that was going to happen sooner or later – but the part where he wakes up with the Jokester drooling in his hair.'</p><p>For those who don't know, Earth 3 is a DC Comics canon alternate universe where the moral opposites of the characters we know and love live. Owlman is that universe's Bruce Wayne - a feared crime lord who makes Patrick Bateman look tame. His arch nemesis is the Joke(ste)r, a former comedian turned vigilante who fights crime with gag-themed props and SHEER AWESOME.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Owned（中译版）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290117) by [Blakeshot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blakeshot/pseuds/Blakeshot)



> The characters of Earth 3 appear in 'Countdown to Final Crisis' (vol 2) and 'Countdown: the Search For Ray Palmer, Crime Society'. A similar set up in pre-Crisis DC continuity is 'JLA Earth 2'. For more info check out the scans and stuff at [Funhouse of Evil](true)

_The first time it happens Owlman decides it must be a fluke._

... Not the sex – he always knew _that_ was going to happen sooner or later (an antagonism as obsessive and physical as theirs was inevitably going to result in the occasional bout of hatesex) – but the part where he wakes up with the Jokester drooling in his hair.

The awareness creeps over him gradually. Roused from the depths of an unusually satisfying slumber, he smells the familiar scent of his own bedclothes and feels the softness of the high thread count sheets, then notices the excess warmth lying up against his back and the weight of an arm across his waist. His first drowsy thought is that it's Lois, but Lois has never deigned to stay the night in his apartment (and he has never invited her to do so); and, furthermore, she is emphatically not the cuddling type.

Still too close to sleep to be truly alarmed, Owlman rolls onto his back and feels the other body adjust in response, shifting to slide beneath his arm. The cold tip of a nose brushes against the underside of his jaw and paint stained fingertips twitch before coming to rest on his right pectoral. He blinks rapidly, and even before his sight clears he experiences that sinking feeling as he catches a blur of purple on the periphery of his vision.

"Mmm," a lascivious purr in his ear, then that all too familiar middle-pitched scratchy tenor. "Morning loveeeeer..."

It all comes back to him then: the fight; the falling masonry; bringing the unconscious clown back to his apartment complex with the idea of some intimate and uninterrupted torture session in the specially equipped basement; things taking that new but dimly expected turn which caused them to ascend to the living area in search of more amenable items of furniture, and then the eventual move into the bedroom which had seemed like a good idea at the time...

His reminiscences are interrupted by a tongue tracing the shell of his ear and long-nailed fingertips pinching one of his nipples.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

"Split-shift, Owlsie," is the cheerful reply. "What, are you going to try and tell me that you have an early meeting to go to or som–" The Jokester then lets out a cry that is more surprise than pain as he is bodily hefted from the bed, taking out a lamp and a bookcase on his journey to the floor.

Owlman sits upright to glare at the sprawled figure, finding that he hardly feels his usual intimidating self with his hair sticking up in all directions and when naked but for a bedsheet. "Get the hell out of my house, freak."

The Jokester rises to his feet, cracking his spine back into alignment and twisting his face in an expression of displeasure. "Sheesh Big Bird, I suppose breakfast in bed and a proposal of matrimony are out of the quest–" here the clown ducks to avoid an ancient Athenian owl sculpture (stolen from the Gotham museum) hurtling towards his head. His next move is a swift exit stage left (with the majority of his clothes); leaving Owlman to pull the covers over his head and brood.

So, a fluke, Owlman eventually decides. A convergence of circumstances which would never again be repeated: the fight had been all-out, of course; the multiple orgasms were tiring.

The clown is never getting back into his bed again. Heck, the clown is never even getting his pointy-toed shoe back over the threshold. From now on, he resolves, they will fight and fuck on rooftops and in alleyways, like respectable nemeses.

When Owlman gets up he finds that the bastard has somehow hacked into the central security system and reprogrammed all his doors, so he's locked in his own house. A giant smiley face has been daubed on one of his eggshell white walls with what turns out to be mustard when he later runs it through analysis.

Owlman doesn't even own mustard, which means that – mind-bogglingly – the Jokester must have brought it with him.

_One of these days I'm going to END that freak. I'm going to grab him by his skinny shoulders and fucking shake him to death._

*~*~*

_The second time it happens he wakes up vaguely aware that something is wrong again..._

... but he allows himself to be soothed back to unconsciousness by a voice in his ear saying 'shh-shh-shh-shush, it's still sleepy-time for birdies."

When he wakes for a second time it is brought on by an awareness of clattering sounds and the smell of freshly brewed coffee and something frying. This confuses him, because no cooking has ever been done in his immaculate show-kitchen (generally he puts on an average Joe costume and goes out to eat, or has a minion fetch him something).

He sits up, scratches his head, pulls on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and goes to investigate.

As he enters the huge open-plan kitchen it takes him a moment before he is able to assimilate and accurately identify what he's seeing – bread rolls, plates, gleaming cutlery, a coffee pot, cups and saucers – a table laid for breakfast. The whole scene looks alien to him, like something from a situation comedy or a cereal advertisement where photogenic people gather around with their paid-for richtus grins ... not something that has a place in the real world.

_... Except once upon a time, it had – on Sundays there had been informal family breakfasts in the kitchen instead of the austere dining room. Alfred's day off... his mother always delighted at the novelty of cooking in her own home... the grains of the scrubbed oak table beneath his fingertips as he watched and waited..._

"Well hiiiii!" the Jokester turns around, a skillet in one hand and a spatula in the other. Owlman notes absently that his adversary is wearing a yellow and purple floral print apron over his suit (where does he even get these things?). From the amount of butter he is now dropping into a second pan it is clear that he also doesn't plan to live past forty. Which is just as well, really, since Owlman is _personally_ going to see to it that –

"Sooo, how do you like your eggs? Scrambled? Over-easy? Hatched under a sixty-watt bulb?"

Owlman scrubs a hand over his face and wonders if this is a dream – these days he often has rather vivid dreams about the Jokester.

How did it happen this time? He remembers the alleyway, the rain pattering against his mask...

_The Jokester is a terrible kisser - his tongue always sloppy and lax, or suddenly insistent and going where Owlman doesn't expect it – he remembers the clown drawing the length of that warm, wet muscle across his front teeth and recalls tasting the sugary corruption of the lipsticked mouth (he thinks that the Jokester probably lives on insubstantial, saccharine things like candy floss and pop rocks)._

The voice, low, rough and intimate – for once not laughing: "ummhnn, you are so sexy." Icy fingers pushing back his mask to card through the sweaty, tangled locks beneath.

He recalls thinking that no-one has ever called him that before... such a simple, stupid compliment... the Jokester's green eyes still alive with that mocking light that never really goes away, but still, no laughter. And for a moment he was distracted, how did this happen? We were fighting, we were...

_Still, he remembers the overwhelming feeling of suddenly wanting it so badly, how that yearning rose up from his chest until he thought he was going to choke on it or go mad. Taking off one glove just to slide his fingertips beneath the fabric of the clown's shirt and feel the bare skin (is the freak's body temperature actually above normal, or does it just seem that way?). His fingertips following the curve of the other's hip up to his ribs – he is sensitive there, and Owlman remembers watching with fascination as the Jokester suddenly jerked and shuddered._

He remembers wanting another kiss, but every time he leaned in the Jokester would turn his face away, giving him his jaw or upper-cheek, never his mouth or scars. He had grunted in frustration as he received these mixed messages - the clown's top half shying away while his hips ground back into Owlman's. Fucking tease.

_"What the fuck is your problem?"_

"It's just–" the red tongue flickering all around the rim of the clown's lips made Owlman want to grab the freak's jaw and hold him still while he pressed their faces together and sucked on that tongue... so he did. When he pulled away again he made sure to trace each scar with his thumbs: that made the clown shiver again.

"It's just what?"

"It's not very romaaantic, now, is it? The rain, the cooold... the drunk hobo passed out over there in a cardboard box. I mean, I don't know what you've heard, but I'm really not that kind of girl..."

"What's your point, freak?"

"Wouldn't you rather do this indoors?"

"No."

His mother had a weakness for stray cats. One would come to the door and his father would say "don't encourage it, Martha," and she would say: "oh, poor thing, maybe we could just feed it," and his father would say: "alright, but it's not coming in the house."

But they always did, eventually. They were clever like that, winding around your ankles and tripping you up so they could dart through the door ahead of you.

_He remembers the feeling of the Jokester's mouth, hot and wet on his neck as he leaned over the clown's shoulder to punch in the twelve-digit entry code._

He remembers how good it was when he fell down onto the bed and felt hot, bare skin beneath his hands. How intoxicating it was too realise he could bend the Jokester into any position he wanted and the clown would just push back... would moan and love it and murmur encouragement...

He dismisses the memory with a shake of his head and fixes his nemesis with the Goddamn Owlman Patented Death Glare. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Breakfast, lover. I don't know about yooou but I worked up quite an appe–"

Then comes the sound of clattering metal utensils and smashing crockery as Owlman picks the Jokester up by the scruff of his neck and hurls him across the table.

"Ow, ow, ow." the Jokester says dully, rolling back and forth on the among the decimated breakfast settings and then laughing as he withdraws a macerated banana from the small of his back. "Think you tossed me in the fruit bowl - heh, visual pun..."

"Get. THE FUCK. Out of my house," Owlman grits out.

"If you're not a fan of fried food, I can make oatmeal... aaack! Owie ow ow!"

After Owlman kicks the clown down seven flights of stairs and locks him outside, he returns to the living area and pauses to scowl at the wreckage. As he phones a lackey to come and deal with the mess, his stomach rumbles.

*~*~*

_The third time it happens... it doesn't happen – the clown completely wrong-foots him._

He flops onto his back and gasps, pausing for a few moments to get his breath back before pulling the Jokester close and tilting his face up for a kiss and running the fingertips of his other hand over the feverish, damp skin of the other man's back. In response the Jokester makes a deep purring sound and rubs Owlman's chest in a circular motion before collapsing down onto it with a sigh.

As they lie there together, Owlman reflects that sometimes, when they're both exhausted and blissed-out – and the Jokester isn't trying to do anything too infuriating with his tongue (like sticking it in Owlman's ear, or using it to _talk_) – it becomes almost possible to feel something like affection towards him.

"That was amaaaazing," the Jokester sighs, opening his eyes to add: "you were pretty good too."

"Mmm."

"How do you do that thing?"

"What thing?"

"The thing where you orgasm but you don't ejaculate, so you just flip me over and keep going..."

"Muscle control."

"Can you teach me?"

Owlman's eyelids flicker as he edges towards sleep. "Maybe. Some other time, clown."

The Jokester kisses him again, deep and satisfying, then presses his long fingers against Owlman's narrow lips.

He closes his eyes... it is simple, and it is nice – body heat, the way the Jokester's limbs tangle with his own. Owlman does not allow himself many indulgences, but on this occasion he is willing to just relax for a few hours... and when he wakes up he will deal with whatever crazy scheme the other man has concocted in the interim.

When he feels the bed rock from side to side as the Jokester clambers out of it he grunts in vague annoyance, thinking that the clown is off to use his bathroom (to leave make-up stains in the sink and flecks of mascara on the mirror) – but instead of running water he hears the sound of fabric rustling and the raising of a zipper. He opens one amber-flecked brown eye to see that the Jokester is half dressed... for some unfathomable reason.

"Where the _fuck_ are you going?"

"I thought we were done for the night."

"Yeah, so?"

"So I'm going home."

Owlman folds his arms across his chest and glares murderously at him, unable to think of anything to say.

"– Thanks for a swell time though big guy. Be seeing ya," the Jokester adds lightly as he heads towards the door.

Owlman reaches out for something to throw at the retreating figure, then realises that he destroyed the lamp and the owl statuette the _first_ time his nemesis stayed over. He socks his pillow with his fist in annoyance and settles down to try to sleep.

... But somehow the moment of drowsy contentment is gone. The rumpled state of his bed sheets begins to annoy him, as does the fact that they now smell of sweat, come and whatever cheap cologne it is that the Jokester wears.

_I hate that goddamn clown._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Owlsie, Owlsie... what I'm hearing, is that you don't like the casual 'booty call' arrangement. You expect a little more commitment from me. I'm fine with that, but in return I'd like it if you stopped paddling around in those warm waters of denial...'

_The fourth time it happens, something shifts._

Owlman returns to his tower in a foul mood after a wasted evening spent in disguise, making enquiries among the city-dwelling homeless. Gotham's hobos revere the clown as their patron saint – not only because he stands up to the Owlman, but because they believe he is the secret benefactor behind the charity hand-outs and soup kitchens. The Jokester often goes to them for information about local happenings, but none of his malodorous groupies can remember having seen him for at least five days.

There is another message from Lois waiting for him on one of his phones and she sounds irate. He will deal with her when he has the energy.

On reaching the penthouse he removes his battered flat cap and stalks out onto his balcony to stare down at the city. Black clouds are concealing the coming dawn and rain falls in vertical sheets. As he feels the rhythmic drumming of water against his skull and droplets sliding down the planes of his face, he rationalises that the Jokester has probably gone to ground in an abandoned warehouse or funfair somewhere – building contraptions, scrutinizing blueprints, sewing himself a ridiculous new costume.

Owlman rubs his face and tries not to think about any of the Jokester's costumes (not the ones which go with stockings, anyway); then he sighs in resignation and closes his eyes. The freak will be back: he always reappears, eventually.

Tomorrow, he decides, he will put on a dockworker costume and go down to commune with the blue collars and the waterfront lowlives – see what they know about the importation of strange items of machinery and unusual activity near condemned buildings in the area. Satisfied by the resolution, he ventures back inside to shower and change into boxer shorts and a white cotton t-shirt. Then he lies down on the bed and tries to sleep, but it's no good; there is that frisson in his nerves – he wants a fight, a good fight.

... Wants to hold slim white thighs apart and watch the scarred torso arch off the bed as he...

_Damn it_.

He pads through into the kitchen, not knowing what he expects to find there. The only contents of the cabinets are body-building powders, isotonic sports drinks and a bottle of XO brandy given to him as a gift by a local businessman in attempt to curry his favour. He doesn't even drink – he has _tried_ it, of course, back in his days as a rising thug – but that was an experiment to see what intoxication felt like, to pin-point which reactions it dulled so he could more effectively frighten and cause pain to any drunks he might, in the future, have cause to intimidate. He studies the curved, ergonomic bottle and imagines how the brandy would slip down his throat and spread warmth through his body, relaxing all his muscles.

Half an hour later he is reclining on the sofa and staring into the softly undulating flames of the huge modern gas fireplace, glass in hand, when the front entrance buzzer sounds.

_Strange_. No-one ever calls at his ivory tower without an invitation and the protection payments aren't due until the start of the month. In the past (before the city's spirit broke completely) there had been a few ill-advised break-ins by rebellious mob-members – and one time, a laughable police assault. All that those who ever forced a door or bypassed his security systems ever achieved was the right to a death dealt by the Taloned Terror himself. As he makes his way towards the bank of CCTV monitors in the far room he smirks at the memories in satisfaction – it has been years since anyone in Gotham was fool-hardy enough to want to threaten the owl in his nest. A pity, really – he always enjoys home invasions.

The monitors display several angles of a single GCPD officer standing in his doorway, the image distorted slightly by the rain. For a moment Owlman is puzzled, but then he sees the man turn his face upwards and grin knowingly at the camera. The smile continues past his lips.

When the elevator doors open with a soft chime and the Jokester steps into his living room to drip water all over the chinese slate tiles, he growls: "Where have you been, clown?"

"Hey, don't you even want to know why I'm wearing this spiffy outfit?" his nemesis asks, affecting a hurt expression.

"No."

The Jokester smoothes down his jacket and executes a half turn. "Don't you like it?"

"No."

"That's a shame... because the commish thought it was just _darling_. That Thomas Wayne is quite the silver fox you know... kinda reminds me of– ack!" When Owlman grabs him by his collar and holds him at arm's length with his toes dangling an inch off the carpet he gasps out: "oh Owlsie – hrrrk! – leave the breathplay until _laaater_!"

"Don't ever say that name in my presence again, understand?"

When returned to the ground the Jokester straightens his tie fastidiously and replies: "rarely, big bird, but then you never open up and share, so–"

Owlman cuts him off: "what do you want?"

Instead of answering the question, the Jokester leans up towards him, his nose wrinkling as he observes: "Owlsie, is that booze I smell on your breath? Have I finally driven you to drink?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Owlman retorts, sitting down on the sofa a little more heavily than he meant to.

The Jokester leans over the coffee table and pours himself some brandy, cards back his damp indigo-coloured hair with a sweep of his hand and then raises the glass in a salute: "here's lookin' at you, kid." After drinking it down he smacks his lips and purrs: "mmm, much better. Hope you don't mind if I ditch the wet clothes out here... wouldn't want to leave puddles in your bedroom. I'm uh, largely house-trained you see..."

Owlman sits up straighter, scowling at the other man as he wriggles out of his navy blue brass-buttoned coat. "You came here for a _fuck_?"

"No, I came here to sell girl-scout cookies but I find I shift more boxes of thin mints if I strip off before I give my pitch – but seriously though folks, _yes_, I came here for a fuck. What – you think I just like you for your, uh, personality?"

"You think you can just turn up here every time you need to be _serviced_?"

"Uh... _yeah_," the Jokester licks his lips and furrows his brow as if to say 'well, _duh_'. "If you slapped me around a little while you were at it, that'd also be nice. Kinda... get off on pain... heh, which is fortunate really because–"

"I should trash your fucking lights!"

"Ooh, _now_ you're talking!"

"This isn't a game, clown."

"What is it then?" the Jokester pauses, half way out of the bottom half of his uniform.

Owlman opens his mouth to speak, then realises that once again he has no reply.

"You alright big guy?" the Jokester gives him a quizzical look. "Your face looks almost like it's trying to make an actual _expression_. Should I call an ambulance? Is there a numb, tingling feeling in your left arm?"

Owlman falls back on a forbidding glare. "Shut up."

The Jokester drapes his trousers and garishly checked socks across the fender to dry. "You seem tense. Are you pissed that I interrupted your fun-filled evening of drinking alone in your underwear?"

Owlman takes a moment to brood over how fundamentally wrong the situation is. The Jokester has seen him without his mask before, and he has seen his nemesis out of make-up (usually when most of it has rubbed off on his bedclothes); they have fucked on the floor, over the sofa and in his bed – but there are _rules_, procedures.

... It needs to at least start on the streets, in the aftermath of a fight – when the adrenaline roars in their ears and their bodies still tingle from the blows. The Jokester just turning up at his home for casual sex – no, a line needs to be drawn! His fist clenches involuntarily as he thinks: _the clown needs to know that he doesn't call the shots around here..._

"Oh, don't give me that look, Owlsie."

Owlman is startled out of his reverie. "What?"

"The 'gotta teach this bitch a lesson' look. Unless it involves restraints and vibrating toys I'm not in the mood."

Owlman gets up, thinking that he will do something decisive, but the Jokester has his back to him as he slips out of the cheap cotton shirt. As he half turns Owlman catches sight of an unfamiliar blot of colour along the clown's ribcage. He grasps the other man's wrist and tugs the Jokester's arm upwards to get a better look. It's a fairly recent bruise – dark purple and blue, barely yellowing at the edges. The result of a glancing, imprecise blow to the ribs. Sloppy... definitely not _his_ work.

"How did you get that?"

"Oh, I dropped in on one of your friend the speedster's heists. Might have made a few too many jokes along the lines of him being a 'minute man' – OW! hey now – that's tender!"

"What was Johnny Quick doing in Gotham?" Owlman continues to press his fingers against the Jokester's ribs, thinking that it is high time for him to teach the little speed junkie a lesson he won't soon forget. The sight of the inky discolouration spreading across his nemesis' pale skin asserts Owlman's possessive instincts (nobody marks the clown but _him_).

"No no no Owlsie, this was in _Central City_... try to keep up."

"What were _you_ doing in Central?" his evaluating eyes flicker up to scan the Jokester's face. Oddly, he is harder to read without the paint.

"I had uh, parts to source... pals to see," the clown waves a hand airily in the manner of the British royalty and pulls away. Now dressed in only a pair of tastefully understated boxers in lime green with puce polka-dots, he bounces down onto the sofa and pours himself more brandy into Owlman's glass.

"You have 'pals'?" Owlman sits down next to him and pulls the glass from his hand, placing it on the far side of the table out of the the other man's reach; the clown frowns for a moment, then grabs the bottle instead and puts his lips to it.

"Yeah, there was a kegger _chez_ Rogues – all fun and games until the Pied Piper tried to slip me some tongue. Red-heads not really my thing, y'know?" He relinquishes the bottle, his face taking on a wry expression as he says: "... speeeaking of unwanted admirers... word on the street is that 'Matches Malone' is looking for me."

Owlman folds his arms across his chest and raises his chin. "Yeah? Who's he?"

"The cat's mother. Either that or he's you in a lame costume you bought from a thrift store. So, is there something you, uh, wanted to ask me?"

"Yes – what are you up to this time?"

The Jokester raises a forefinger and taps his bottom lip, rolling his eyes ceilingwards as he observes: "gee, I'm guessing you were one of those kids who shook their Christmas presents. Shook 'em until whatever was inside broke, probably..."

"Enough wisecracks." Owlman leans sideways and spans the Jokester's throat with his hand, his forearm pressing diagonally across the other man's ribcage, constricting his breathing. "Tell me now, freak."

"Mmm, I hate it when you're all business," the other man comments. As the hand tightens threateningly around his neck he seems to lean into the touch.

Owlman places his fingers against where he knows the bruise to be and pushes; the Jokester's eyelids flutter and he lets out a low hiss. The larger man leans in until their faces are just inches apart, his mouth contorting into a sneer: "we're enemies, understand? Don't get any ideas that just because we fuck from time to time it means I'll go soft on you."

"I'd hate for you to go _soft_, Owlsie, I really would... hrrrk! Throat again? You're getting unimaginative..."

Owlman scowls down at him, his pulse beating faster as the clown's taunts take their inevitable effect. The other man's green eyes sparkle in the firelight and Owlman knows that he is being played; goaded into aggressive action which his adversary expects to turn into bedroom fireworks. He lets out a growl of frustration and pulls away, pressing his palms to his eyes for a moment, as if he hopes that the figure sprawled at the other end of his sofa is a hallucination brought on by fatigue.

The Jokester sits up, looking annoyed and slightly puzzled by the reaction. "Hey, you need me to explain to you how this works? I sass-mouth you; you teach me a lesson I soon forget... then," his voice drops to an insinuating murmur and he slides closer, "you teach me a different kind of lesson."

"No," Owlman tells him, swallowing a mouthful of brandy and removing a wandering pale-skinned hand from his thigh.

"Aww come on! I even did most of the work for you – hello, I'm practically naked here!" the Jokester appeals, gesturing to himself.

"No," Owlman repeats, thinking that perhaps if he sticks to monosyllables and refuses to be drawn into a debate or another bout of wrestling, the Jokester won't be able to trick him again.

The clown turns petulant, sticking his bottom lip out. "What d'ya mean 'no'?"

"It's not going to happen, so get out before I throw you out."

"Is there... something wrong with 'little Owlsie'?"

"What?"

"– Because y'know, drinking... that's not going to help matters."

"What? Oh," Owlman makes an appalled face as he realises what is being insinuated. "No, that doesn't happen to me. Ever."

"Look," the Jokester's voice becomes infuriatingly sympathetic and he slides closer still, placing a palm against Owlman's chest and pushing gently, "it's probably just stress, you know, if you just lie back and let me–"

Owlman grabs his wrist and twists it, shoving him backwards. "No, you shut up, clown! This has to stop. You don't... you don't respect the boundaries! And you... you waltz in here, messing up my house and demanding things of me and then... _then_ when you're finished you expect to just... be on your merry fucking way?–"

The Jokester pulls his hand out of the other's grip and raises an eyebrow. "Well, what would you prefer? Would it make you happier if I stayed the night?"

Owlman shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. "No! No, are you retarded, or do you just never listen?! I'm saying–"

"Owlsie, Owlsie," a series of reassuring pats are placed on the villain's shoulder, "what I'm _hearing_, is that you don't like the casual 'booty call' arrangement. You expect a little more commitment from me. I'm fine with that, but in return I'd like it if you stopped paddling around in those warm waters of denial..."

"Denial? _I'm_ in denial? About what?"

"Gee, I don't know big guy," the Jokester throws his arms into the air. "The fact that you and I have a relationship that goes beyond just 'I-hate-you PUNCH'? I mean, yeah we're arch-enemies... locked in a mutually obsessive battle to the death, but that's only a _day job_, really. We're also other things – we're two people who enjoy a vigorous sex life, for instance... and I don't know about you, but what we have in, uh, the bedroom – or you know, back alley, ha ha! so to speak? I don't get that with just anyone and I think we both know there might be something underneath it all–"

"Clown?" Owlman leans over and grabs the slighter man's upper arms.

"Yes pumpkin pie?"

"Will you shut up if I fuck you?"

Green eyes widen in eagerness. "Oh, yes sir, yes I will!"

The Jokester squeals with delight as Owlman hoists him over one broad shoulder in a fireman's lift and carries him towards the master bedroom.

*~*~*

He wakes up with a mouthful of the corner of his pillow. There is warm breath against his neck and an arm slung over his waist. It's sort of like the first time except there's an unfamiliar pounding in his temples.

He hears the Jokester groan with unnecessary theatricality, then feels the pitching of the mattress as the other man rolls away. Long-nailed fingertips brush over the expanse of Owlman's back, tracing invisible patterns: spirals and trailing loops like a girl's handwriting. It dimly occurs to him that no-one has ever touched him like this before: intimate but not sexual. A muscle in his shoulder twitches involuntarily; he grunts and turns over.

"Owlsie," comes the all-too familiar voice, "how about you don't toss me at the wall this morning, huh? I'm feeling a little uh, _fragile_."

Owlman blinks at him and rubs his eyes with the backs of his hands, making a sound like "hnuhh?"

"So, you got that not-so-fresh feeling too?" When Owlman covers his eyes with his fingers and groans the Jokester observes: "you know, you're kind of a lightweight..."

"That's because I don't drink."

"Well you know you _should_ – you're so much fun when you're tipsy! Actually, it's a pity I had to give up doing stand-up, I'd have enough material to last me a lifetime..."

"What?"

"Three drinks up, you lose all your inhibitions. Some of the stuff you were coming out with – _in flagrante delicto_, so to speak – uh, ... very enlightening!"

Owlman flings out an arm indiscriminately and smacks some part of the man lying next to him. "Quiet, clown."

The Jokester manages to be silent and reasonably still for all of thirty seconds, then resumes his fidgeting and remarks: "Soooo, don't suppose you have any coffee in your weird empty house?"

"Think some came with the filter machine." He then watches as the Jokester scrambles out of bed and pulls on Owlman's discarded white t-shirt. It is much too big for him, hanging off one shoulder and the hem skirting mid-thigh level – when Owlman closes his eyes and tries to fall back to sleep he can still see the after-image as if it has been burned onto his retinas.

As he listens to the sounds of distant slamming and clattering as the Jokester sets to work creating a mess in his kitchen, he rests his arm behind his head and mentally re-organises his day to allow for fifteen minutes of drinking coffee in bed followed by twenty minutes of fucking his nemesis. Owlman closes his eyes and imagines himself still flat on his back and the Jokester straddling his hips. He decides that if the other man tries to take off the t-shirt, he'll grab his hands and say 'no freak, you leave that on'... then he'll rub the clown's dick through the damp cotton, make him pant and whine...

The sound of smashing crockery makes him open one eye.

"Uhhh Owlsie, I think you should get in here!"

The clown's voice sounds almost panicked, and the strangeness of the tone is enough to draw Owlman from the bed and towards the kitchen, tugging on his discarded boxers as he crosses the bedroom floor. "For fuck's sake clown, what have you done n–"

There is a cup broken on the floor, but the Jokester isn't looking at that, he's looking towards the french windows leading to the balcony. The lock has been melted and Superwoman stands holding the double doors apart, glowering as she pauses upon threshold like a character from a melodrama.

"Lois!" his instinct is to rush out '_it's not what it looks like!_' but as he glances over and catches sight of a conspicuous bite mark on the Jokester's inner thigh, the words die in his throat.

"Bruce!" she cries, giving him a look of astonished disapproval.

The clown raises a sardonic eyebrow. "'Bruce'?"

"Well, now I see why you're too busy to return your phone calls," Superwoman says, putting one hand on her hip.

"The Goddamn Owlman's real name is 'Bruce'?" the Jokester enquires.

"My real name is _Owlman_," he snarls in retort.

"– As in 'g'day mate, I'm Bruce, strewth, let's put another shrimp on the barbie'?'

"As in Robert the Bruce. Now shut the fuck up, _Jackie_."

"The guy who lived in a cave and hung out with a spider?" the clown rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively. "Pff! Soooo, what – was 'Arachno-dork' already taken?"

"Owls _eat_ spiders!" the other man insists, annoyed at the Jokester's failure to understand his symbolism.

"You know, I'm still here," Superwoman interjects. "Can you two love-birds have your little domestic spat some other time?"

"Actually, he's a bird, but I'm a _clown_. That might not be obvious because I haven't put my face on yet but–"

"We're not _lovers_," Owlman says.

"Oh _please_ – I think it's pretty obvious what's going on. I mean, I knew you were creepily obsessed, but I've got to say Bruce, sleeping with your arch-nemesis – it's more than a little tacky. And, frankly," she throws a contemptuous glance at the Jokester, "I thought you had better taste."

"Ooh, OH!" the Jokester exclaims gleefully, wagging his finger back and forth between the other two. "I get it! I'm the _other woman_!"

"No you're not. Shut up."

"So I'm your one and only? Are we, uh, 'going steady' as they say? Aww – kiss me you romantic fool!"

Owlman lets out a growl of frustration and clamps his hand down on the back of the Jokester's neck, pushing the slighter man towards the bedroom and forcing him to stumble across the room with his head down. "Get in there and don't come out until I say so."

"But Owlsie," he protests in a high, whining voice, "I don't want to go back in the closet!"

When Owlman slams the door behind the clown he turns to find that Lois is standing with her arms folded across her chest, and that her expression is not one of anger, or jealousy, but of wry amusement.

*~*~*  
When their interview finally comes to an end, he returns to the bedroom. The Jokester raises himself on his elbows as he enters.

"Soo, how'd it go stud? Were there tears and recriminations?"

"No. She wants to watch."

"Heh. Live show or DVD?"

His nemesis is lying in the middle of the bed with one ankle crossed over the other; reclining nearly naked among the scattered pillows as if he owns the place. It finally occurs to Owlman that he is never going to get rid of the clown, and that even trying is a waste of time.

When he reaches the bed, Owlman grabs the Jokester's shoulder and turns him over, pinning him to the matress with his considerable body weight, then he lifts the hem of the overlarge t-shirt and smacks the other man's white ass with an open palm. The slap makes a satisfying sound and causes the clown to gasp and buck his hips. Owlman smiles and leans down to growl into his ear: "tell me: why do I put up with you when you're so much trouble?"

"Because I cater to your every perverted whim?" the Jokester suggests, his voice somewhat muffled by the pillow.

"Hm," Owlman appraises the thumbprint-shaped patterns of bruising he left around the other man's waist the previous evening before flipping him over again and trailing his fingertips through the line of immaculately dyed purple hair leading from the clown's navel to the base of his cock, which now lies half-hard against his thigh. "There is that."

*~*~*

_After a while he gives up counting._

He returns to his penthouse at four am, barely beating the dawn as he slides between the sheets of his empty bed. Around six he wakes to the sound of his alarm system wailing for a split-second then going eerily quiet. He sits up and reaches to the nightstand for a gun –he doesn't like guns, they're too quick... but sometimes you have to go for convenience. His grip on the weapon slackens as he hears the familiar sound of stumbling steps and distracted muttering punctuated by soft giggles.

He returns the gun to the drawer and turns onto his side, easing back into the bedclothes and closing his eyes.

He hears fabric hit the floor and soon a body clambers over his to reach the far side of the bed. He hears the Jokester give an exhausted sigh (one that sounds more genuine than theatrical, for once) and soon soft, regular snores emanate from the other man's frame.

Owlman falls back to sleep and when he wakes again he rolls closer and slips an arm around his nemesis' waist. He buries his nose in the purple hair that curls over the back of a white neck and finds that the other man smells faintly of gasoline.

'Mmm, Owlsie?"

"Hmm?"

"Not so tight... 's kinda hard to breathe..."

Owlman grunts and loosens the grip of his arm. He begins to idly twine a lock around his finger. "You smell like a gas station. What have you been doing, hm?"

"Biiig secret." the Jokester sighs and rolls onto his back. "But... you'll find out soon enough."

Owlman's fingers continue to toy with the tacky strands of hair, carding through it and rubbing small circles. The clown likes that, fingers against his scalp – he makes a deep purring sound and all is quiet for a brief moment before the insistent rumbling of the Jokester's stomach asserts itself.

"When was the last time you ate?"

One green eye opens. "Pretty sure there was a hamburger either yesterday or the day before..."

"Idiot."

"Ok, ok, how about I do a couple of laps in your olympic-sized bathtub and you pretend to be a human being and go and buy some groceries?"

"We could go out."

"Mm, no. If we go out we'll miss the news."

"And you're the lead story?"

"Well you can't always have the headlines all to yourself, big bird." The Jokester stretches luxuriantly, then turns his head to glance at the other man: "what are you doing this weekend?"

"CSA meeting."

"Yeah?" the Jokester rolls over and straddles his hips. "Can you get out of it?"

"Why would I?" Owlman raises an eyebrow.

"Quality time with your bestest nemesis, of course!"

Owlman only gets as far as "you think–" in retort before a loud bang and ominous rumble cuts him off. He turns over on top of the clown, pinning him down as he raises his head to gaze out the full-length window behind his bed at a plume of smoke rising over the city to the south-east.

"That better not be my fucking R&amp;D compound."

Instead of a reply, he feels the vibrations of the Jokester's gasping laughter against his chest.

**The End**


End file.
